


Winner Takes All

by BlueSimba



Category: Free!
Genre: F/M, M/M, Suggestive Themes, revenge against my wife hokshi for making me thirst for him, the thirst is strong, this man could stab me and I'd thank him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 10:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba
Summary: Hiyori finds new ways to test you in public.





	Winner Takes All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hokshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hokshi/gifts).



“Don’t play this game with me,” you say.

The sound of your pencil scribbling over the paper is clear. Dipping, the sun glides down, where it’s met with the tops of bushy trees, and the evening clouds roll in as a tell-tale sign that you should be getting out of here soon. Large windows and your own internal clock keep you focused on everything—the handout you’re rushing through, the way the daylight fades with each of your pencil strokes.

Everything except for _him._

You don’t have to see Hiyori’s smile that cuts his face with a mischievous edge to know it’s there, with an edge hidden behind his eyes that seem like they’re smiling at anyone. All the features of his face come together to play the part of the fool, but the puppet strings he pulls behind his smiling eyes and too-put-together face are grating, you’re sure. You wonder if his fingers are ever burned from playing with people too much.

“What game?” he says, a lilt in his voice that nudges at your brain. 

Silence answers his teasing question for you. The questions on the handout start to blend together and your answers for each one veer on the side of incoherent when you know his eyes are on you. 

His foot knocks against yours. Again.

“The feet thing. You know you’re being distracting.” 

“Oh?” There’s a mock innocence coddling his voice. It makes your skin crawl. “Am I?” He pretends to think about it, taps his finger against his chin to bring the whole act together.

You break away from the handout and give him a pointed look. 

He raises his hands and gives you a, “Sorry, sorry. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

That promise rings hollow, and you’re sure it’s just a loophole for him to exploit with something else, because that’s how he is: skirting and sliding on technicalities. 

Not even thirty seconds pass when he finds a new way to interrupt you. You don’t even manage to get an answer out for one of the problems you’re working through.

His fingers are molten when they glide up your thigh. 

“I didn’t know you had a voyeuristic streak.” You hum. “Do you really feed on attention that much?”

When his fingers freeze, you feel traces of a chilling grin settling on your face. Keeping your eyes glued to the paper instead of on him is probably some shade of cruel. You decide he deserves it.

He hits you with something that doesn’t mesh right with the campus setting. “Would you feel inclined to explore it if I did? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Your tongue wedges itself between your teeth, and you have to keep yourself from making a whole movie in your head from that answer he gave you. The heat fizzling beneath your skin shakes your concentration. 

Putting down your pencil is a gamechanger. You level Hiyori with a look mixed between fascination and a daring glint. Daylight doesn’t have to ride his skin to make him look good. He doesn’t need a fake halo over his head when he fits in so much better with the purple evening.

His elbow is propped up on the table, with his chin in his palm. Relaxed, his body language would tell you that he doesn’t know how hot he makes your skin feel, but his Cheshire eyes that continually swipe at you tell you just enough. 

“Hypothetically,” you muse, “you could persuade me, but you’re not one to just commit to only _one_ idea, are you?”

“My, my, aren’t you supposed to be finishing the worksheet for class? Or did you need to look at my notes again?” His lips churn out a sentence, but you’re more focused on the way his lips move. He conveniently slides his notebook over to you. The handwriting is nice, nothing short of practiced perfection, and it mirrors him well, the man that’s second to no one, not even his own best time.

“Staring?” he says, noticing your eyes on him. “You’re quite bold.”

“You must love the sound of your own voice. Here,” you say, getting up so that you tower over him. You bring your head down to his level. “Let me help you with that.”

Your lips are on his, and your hands cup his face. It’s brash, it’s bold, it’s tapping into that voyeurism because of the curious eyes from the remaining students that fly to you, but it’s the blush feathering his cheeks that makes you stay, that pushes you to keep going.

_So cute._

Perhaps it’s telling that you find him like this—breathless, blushing, lost for words—cute. Your tongues brush against each other. 

When you pull away, he gives you a look that tells you it was too short, that you ripped him away just before he could really sink into it. Good. You take a second to collect your stuff before walking away.

“See you Wednesday, Hiyori.”

You like the way your smile slices your face. Perhaps he’s rubbing off on you, and that in and of itself should be a little alarming. But the invisible chord to his heart wrapped around your finger is fun. Winding it around your finger once, twice, then three times, your mind imagines a slight burn. It feels good.


End file.
